A Jonesboro negro, while waiting for the train to go out, met up
with Uncle Remus. After the usual “time of day” had been passed
between the two, the former inquired about an acquaintance.
“How’s Jeems Rober’son?” he asked.
“Ain’t you year ’bout Jim?” asked Uncle Remus.
“Dat I ain’t,” responded the other; “I ain’t hear talk er Jem sence he
cut loose fum de chain-gang. Dat w’at make I ax. He ain’t down
wid de biliousness, is he?”
“Not dat I knows un,” responded Uncle Remus, gravely. “He ain’t
sick, an’ he ain’t bin sick. He des tuck’n say he wuz gwineter ride
dat ar roan mule er Mars John’s de udder Sunday, an’ de mule, she
up’n do like she got nudder ingagement. I done bin fool wid dat
mule befo’, an’ I tuck’n tole Jim dat he better not git tangle up wid
‘er; but Jim, he up’n ’low dat he wuz a hoss-doctor, an’ wid dat he
ax me fer a chaw terbarker, en den he got de bridle, en tuck’n
kotch de mule en got on her—Well,” continued Uncle Remus,
looking uneasily around, “I speck you better go git yo’ ticket. Dey
tells me dish yer train goes a callyhootin’.”
“Hole on dar, Uncle Remus; you ain’t tell me ’bout Jim,” exclaimed
the Jonesboro negro.
“I done tell you all I knows, chile. Jim, he tuck’n light on de mule,
an’ de mule she up’n hump ’erse’f, an den dey wuz a skuffle, an’
w’en de dus’ blow ’way, dar lay de nigger on de groun’, an’ de mule
she stood eatin’ at de troff wid wunner Jim’s gallusses wrop ’roun’
her behime-leg. Den atterwuds, de ker’ner, he come ’roun’, an’ he
tuck’n gin it out dat Jim died sorter accidental like. Hit’s des like I
tell you: de nigger wern’t sick a minnit. So long! Bimeby you won’t
ketch yo’ train. I got ter be knockin’ long.”
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